


Lucid

by AdamantSteve



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dreaming, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Sleep, Sleep Sex, The Winter Soldier - Freeform, bottom!Steve, dubcon, or is it bucky?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve dreams about a man that's half Bucky, half something else.<br/>He must be dreaming, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucid

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING for dub/noncon!! I've marked this as noncon for the following reasons:
> 
> Steve THINKS he's dreaming about Bucky/the Winter Soldier fucking him (which he enjoys). But he isn't actually dreaming. No consent is ever established.

Steve's showered, the bed sheets are neat and fresh and the pillows plump and tidy. There's a glass of water alone on the nightstand, all phones and tablets and laptops elsewhere so as not to tempt one last check of the news which never seems to stop. Not that news ever stopped before, but there's something about a morning newspaper that makes it seem finite. A new day's worth of things to think about. A day’s worth of news to put away.

 

Casefiles are bad bedtime reading, so they too are shunned to the living room, neatly lined up on the coffee table. They’re for tomorrow. Sleep is for now.

 

Steve lays back and concentrates on the feel of the sheets on his skin, the weight of his limbs pressing down against the mattress, the stillness settling over him that could so easily feel oppressive. Steve relaxes, and clears his mind, thinking about flat planes of colours (not white, never white) that soothe and calm him until he finally floats into sleep.

 

Steve doesn't dream much. Perhaps his brain puts a stop to them out of some sense of self-preservation. He needs his sleep, after all, and dreams can so easily turn into nightmares; It's best not to even wander down that path. And so Steve sleeps dreamlessly, the faint sounds of the city humming along around him a comfort like it was once, a long time ago.

 

There's a movement. Almost soundless and very slight, but it's just at the point in Steve's sleep cycle that it rouses him enough to open an eye to read the time on the DVD player in the living room. Except they're not there.

 

Steve doesn't think between getting out of bed and pushing the man in his bedroom doorway against the wall, doesn't say anything either, just holds onto him and pants, adrenaline coursing through his veins as the guy goes with it, watching Steve through black-rimmed eyes that are behind a mask as Steve presses his wrists against the wall, pulls the knife and the gun away from his body, tossing them away into the hallway.

 

The man just lets Steve move him, and it's so unlike anyone who Steve's confronted like this, because people always _try_ , when they're in his grasp, but this guy doesn't, he just watches, blue eyes bright against the greasepaint on his face, widening as they observe Steve's slowing movements.

 

Because Steve thinks he’s awake now, properly, fully awake, and there's no accounting anymore for the guy looking as nightmarishly familiar as he does. Because his lips might not be quirked quite the same, and the eyes are flatter somehow, but just as blue, and the jaw has the same angles as the ghost that haunts Steve's every bitten-off dream. So he can't be awake, really, if this person looks so like Bucky in another man's skin, it has to be a dream.

 

As if to prove it’s unreal, when Steve leans forward and presses the man's wrists harder into the wall, the drywall cracks and creaks instead of the man's bones. 

 

So logically, it must also be a dream when Steve presses his own lips against those familiar, frightening ones, and the man tastes just like Bucky did and tips his chin just the same. It can’t be real when he holds onto Steve's waist just how Bucky used to, when Steve thoughtlessly lets his arms go. 

 

Steve's had lucid dreams before, floating about from room to room like a ghost, painting masterpieces with easy flicks of his wrist, being pinned perfectly underneath a strong, warm body that draws an orgasm out of him, only to wake and find himself sticky and embarrassed. 

 

So Steve thinks perhaps, somewhere in the back of his sleeping mind, that this is just that, a lucid dream, and if he gave it mind he'd try to float up, jump a little to see if he'd keep going. Try to read something and find the words jumbling and impossible. 

 

But he doesn't, because the lips under his own, all scars and hardness softened by the tender familiarity of a man he used to know, command all his attention. And then his attention is driven to finding a way to the bed, and to removing the man’s clothes and stepping out of his own. The man lets him, pulls at Steve's but leaves his own, waiting for Steve to take them and still paling when he tries to touch the mask. He pushes Steve down, and it's too familiar to be real as he presses his weight on top of Steve, moves his legs just so and sticks his fingers in his mouth. Three fingers, pressed against a pink tongue, an exact replica of a moment from a lifetime ago.

 

 IT seems an odd detail for his subconscious to pick out, odder still to linger on the moments before thick flesh is slid into him, when dreams like this used to be all about the moments of truest sensation, a race to a shallow orgasm chased through dreamy clouds. So Steve tries to hurry it along, murmuring 'please' and pawing ineffectually at the man's shoulders, broad and hard, one arm incongruously rendered as warm metal, unyielding and heavy when it pushes Steve down, hand wrapping around Steve's neck for one long moment before sliding over his jawbone and planting itself by Steve's head, immoveable. 

 

Steve grabs at it, tries to pull it back, tries to look at it properly,  but then the man is there, as unmoving and solid as his arm, pressed into Steve as he closes his eyes into blackness above him, keeping them closed as he starts to move. 

 

It’s as perfect as traitorous memories have echoed, solid and slick and rasping thickly over places inside Steve he thought he might have forgotten, lights bursting around him like fireworks as the man fucks him like a machine til Steve tries his luck and pushes at him again, til he's laying out on his back with Steve riding him, holding them both in place with the pillar of his cock keeping him there. Steve does his best to study the man, laid out beneath him like this, but he doesn't get a chance before he's being held in place, hands on his hips and then around his waist and then across his shoulders as the man holds on and fucks up into him instead.

 

"Please," Steve says against the man's hair, long and thick, smelling like gunsmoke and petrol, til it's all he can say, "please please please," into the hot skin of his neck, kissing at scars that don't make sense. In answer the man pulls at Steve's hair, yanking him back; away, Steve thinks at first, and he's confused that his own dream would do that, but then the man presses him down face first into the bed and that's much better, when he slides back where he was, weight and heat over Steve's back, holding him in his favourite place. 

 

It's hard, much harder than a dream has any right to be, but all the better for it, and the man's movements start to quake, jabs in and out that aren't as mechanical anymore, fingers digging hard into Steve's hips and then his thighs, lifting him away from the bed, and then it's slicker, the man still pumping in and out of him but easier, and Steve comes at the thought of it, of the man coming inside of him and the whole thing feeling so real. 

 

He comes with a cry that's muffled because of the hand pressing him down, feels the wetness beneath him on the bed and the wetness between his cheeks as the man pulls out. And it's another odd thing for his subconscious to add, but no worse for it, since Steve can't recall when he last felt so perfectly, gloriously used up, with the slick remnants of it right where it ought to be, spilling out of him when the man presses a finger in just for good measure. 

 

There's no words, and not the breath to speak them if there were, but Steve shakes his head and tries to say _something_ , rolling back over to see the man kneeling on the bed, chest rising and falling along with his breaths. By any rights he ought to be falling down beside Steve and pulling him close, because even if Steve's just clinging on to this being all in his head, that's what he wants, and why can't he get what he goddamn wants? 

 

He reaches out for the man, who reaches back with the metal arm, before catching sight of it and pulling away, standing up and pulling on his clothes. "Please," Steve says, eyes beginning to close of their own volition. The man ignores him and shucks on his coat. Steve whines and stretches his arm across the bed. " _Bucky_."

 

The man freezes, collar turned up as he turns to look at Steve. His voice is rougher than Steve thinks it ought to be. "Who the hell is Bucky?" 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
